realize that he would soon be required to bestir himself, to intrigue,
to ask where La Zambinella lived, to ascertain whether she had a
mother, an uncle, a guardian, a family,--in a word, as he reflected
upon the methods of seeing her, of speaking to her, he felt that his
heart was so swollen with such ambitious ideas, that he postponed
those cares until the following day, as happy in his physical
sufferings as in his intellectual pleasures."

"But," said Madame de Rochefide, interrupting me, "I see nothing of
Marianina or her little old man in all this."

"You see nothing but him!" I cried, as vexed as an author for whom
some one has spoiled the effect of a _coup de theatre_.

"For some days," I resumed after a pause, "Sarrasine had been so
faithful in attendance in his box, and his glances expressed such
passionate love, that his passion for La Zambinella's voice would have
been the town-talk of Paris, if the episode had happened here; but in
Italy, madame, every one goes to the theatre for his own enjoyment,
with all his own passions, with a heartfelt interest which precludes
all thought of espionage with opera-glasses. However, the sculptor's
frantic admiration could not long escape the notice of the performers,
male and female. One evening the Frenchman noticed that they were
laughing at him in the wings. It is hard to say what violent measures
he might have resorted to, had not La Zambinella come on the stage.
She cast at Sarrasine one of those eloquent glances which often say
more than women intend. That glance was a complete revelation in
itself. Sarrasine was beloved!

"'If it is a mere caprice,' he thought, already accusing his mistress